


Faith Like Wings

by IdleLeaves



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, gleefully smashing together book and TV canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:22:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: A collection of flashfic and snippets forSynchronised Screamingand other challenges.Chapter 3: You Are Gold- Aziraphale's wings are a disgrace. Crowley aims to fix that.Chapter 4: Time Takes it All- London is in ruins, and Crowley wants Aziraphale to think about moving on.(NEW) Chapter 5: What Carried You- Gabriel and Michael, after the first war.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Gabriel & Michael (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 57





	1. Be Still

Afterward, Aziraphale finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. "That was..." he starts, but nothing else on the tip of his tongue feels right.

Crowley stretches out beside him with a soft, warm laugh. "Speechless?" he says. "That's a first."

"Tonight's full of firsts, isn't it," Aziraphale says, and quietly miracles away the evidence. He rolls to face Crowley, taking his hand and slotting their fingers together. They lie there like that for a few moments, the clock outside the door ticking away the seconds.

Crowley pulls his hand free, and Aziraphale takes that as his cue to roll onto his back. Rather than sliding out of bed, though, he curls closer, laying himself flush against Aziraphale's side - head on his shoulder, hand on his chest, leg thrown over Aziraphale's thigh. "Mm," he hums, and Aziraphale can feel it when he exhales a deep sigh. Aziraphale wraps his arm securely around Crowley's shoulders.

He shouldn't be surprised, really, but he's fighting the urge to grin like a lunatic, to hold Crowley so tightly that neither of them can breathe. Not that they need to. He's seen hints of this before, he remembers, when Crowley's been particularly drunk. Crowley's head had landed on him - his shoulder, his chest, his lap - more than once, or even twice.

They've shared a bed before, too, a handful of times over 6000 years - not like tonight, never like tonight, but just sleeping side by side from dusk to dawn. And sometimes Aziraphale would wake with Crowley's head on his arm, but Crowley would always retreat as soon as he woke. Aziraphale, to save Crowley's dignity - or so he told himself - would always pretend to be asleep until Crowley dressed and departed.

"This is nice," Aziraphale says, and a moment later there's a soft flutter and the brief scent of fire. Aziraphale finds himself covered not just by blankets, but by an outstretched black wing. The other is tucked tightly along Crowley's back. "Really, darling," Aziraphale says, but fondly.

Crowley yawns, suddenly and sharply. "Sleep, if you like," Aziraphale says. "I'll wake you in the morning." He closes his eyes, then, even if he has no intention of sleeping. Even if all he plans to do is stay here, just like this, until the sky lightens and dawn breaks.


	2. Five Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve, five years before the end of the world.

"Five years," Aziraphale says, when he and Crowley are well on their way to drinking more in a single evening than they have since - well. Some time ago. Maybe 1941. September, when a lift home had led to a drink, then to several (bottles) and Crowley falling asleep near dawn on the bookshop sofa.

Tonight, though - tonight is New Year's Eve, and the Dowlings, all three of them, have jetted off to Paris for a fortnight. Aziraphale bets it'll be less than forty-eight hours before Nanny is summoned to wrangle Warlock for the rest of their holiday, but at least for tonight it's just the two of them.

"What?" says Crowley, refilling his glass. He takes a drink straight from the bottle before leaning down to fill Aziraphale's glass, as well; a few drops of wine slosh over the side and onto Aziraphale's trousers, but he decides not to mention it this time. It wouldn't be the first - or the fifth, or the fiftieth - time that one of them would have to miracle away a dark red stain.

"Warlock is six," Aziraphale continues. "So we've got five years." Oh, this isn't a good sign. Midnight's just a few minutes away and he's managed to put himself in a mood. In the background, the radio continues to play - some station that Crowley had chosen. Mostly bebop. Maybe that's at fault; it's odd music for the end of a year. So upbeat, like the passage of time means nothing at all when, really, it's never meant more.

"And?" Crowley says, scratching the back of his neck like he always does when he's not quite sure what Aziraphale is getting at.

Aziraphale twists his glass in his hands. "What if," he starts. "What if we don't-" The rest of the words stick in his throat. He shakes his head, and Crowley looks confused.

"But we do," Crowley says, entirely misunderstanding. "He has to be eleven before-"

"No," says Aziraphale. "That's not what I mean." He pauses to take a long sip of wine, and extends the silence by topping off his glass, again, from the latest bottle. "What if we can't stop it?" he says, and isn't sure if he's even loud enough for Crowley to hear. "And then, what happens when we-" and this time, he doesn't mean _you and I_ , "-win?"

Crowley turns sideways on the arm of the sofa and pulls his feet up onto the cushions, resting his elbows on his knees. "Well," he says, after a moment; Aziraphale can hear him work to keep his voice neutral, even light. "Like you said, once. _It'll all be rather lovely_ , or something. Right?"

"I've been thinking about that," Aziraphale says, because of course he has - in the days leading up to every one of Warlock's birthdays, and after midnight at every new year. He stays facing forward, glancing across the room at nothing in particular, because he doesn't think he can look Crowley in the eye for this - not right now. "I'm not sure that it will be. Lovely, that is." He glances skyward for half a second, and takes a breath.

Crowley rearranges himself and ends up right beside Aziraphale; Aziraphale doesn't have to look to know that Crowley is watching him, now, with a serious, almost... compassionate, maybe, expression on his face that only ever comes out at moments like these. "It'll work," Crowley says.

"How can you be sure?" Aziraphale asks, and turns his head so their eyes finally meet.

"I can't," says Crowley, honestly, and waits a beat before he continues. "But I'm not going to spend the next five years just waiting for the world to end. And I don't think you should, either."

The clock in the hall begins to chime the hour. Midnight.

"Happy New Year, Angel," Crowley says.

Aziraphale tries a smile, and finds it's genuine. "Happy New Year, Crowley."


	3. You Are Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's wings are a disgrace. Crowley aims to fix that.
> 
> For [SugarMagic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarMagic).

It's been at least half an hour since Crowley laid down on the bookshop sofa with his head in Aziraphale's lap; in that time, Aziraphale shifts at least a dozen times, rolling his shoulders or rubbing the back of his neck, before adjusting his book and continuing to read.

Aziraphale huffs out a sigh, and Crowley turns onto his back to look up at him. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," Aziraphale says, and it's such an obvious lie Crowley almost laughs.

"Nice try," he says, and snatches Aziraphale's book, holding it with both hands against his chest. "Out with it."

"Crowley," Aziraphale starts, with something that's trying very hard to be a frown. "It's nothing. Just a bit of an itch - nothing to trouble yourself over."

"Oh, I'm not troubled," Crowley says. "Where?"

"Left wing," Aziraphale admits. “Secondary coverts, I think."

Crowley rolls to his feet. "All right," he says. "Pop them out." He's expecting Aziraphale to protest, with an _it's fine, dear_ or _really, there's no need_ , but instead he stands, and his wings manifest with a soft flutter.

Crowley sees the problem; there's a patch of feathers lying at a distinct angle to the ones around them, just enough out of place to be bothersome. He's distracted, though, by the general overall state of Aziraphale's wings.

"Your wings are a disgrace," Crowley says, once he's gotten a proper look. They're not that bad, really, but it's clearly been a while since they've been groomed. "How can someone so _fussy_ -"

"Oh, well," Aziraphale says, before Crowley can even finish his thought. "You know how it is. Out of sight, out of mind."

"Not a good excuse," Crowley says, working the offending feathers back into alignment.

Aziraphale exhales slowly. "That's better," he says. "Thank you."

"I'm not done," says Crowley, and Aziraphale turns his head to look at him over his shoulder. Crowley fetches a pillow from the sofa and drops it onto the rug. "Sit," he says.

Aziraphale hesitates a moment, then does as asked - without comment, even. Crowley kneels behind him, and coaxes Aziraphale to spread his wings to their full span, so he can more clearly see what needs to be done. Aziraphale has, until now, always rejected his offers of help, so Crowley plans to be thorough.

He starts with Aziraphale's scapulars, pressing his fingers between the feathers and stroking them into neatness; he works outward from there, over coverts, secondaries, and alula, tidying Aziraphale's long, sleek primaries last of all. It's taking even longer than anticipated - and he still has an entire wing to go - but Aziraphale's soft, pleased sounds, and the way he relaxes and becomes pliant under Crowley's hands, make it worth it.

"There," Crowley says, when he's finally finished. He lays his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, and leans forward to kiss the back of his neck. "You should groom them more often, Angel."

"Maybe _you_ should groom them more often," Aziraphale says, in that lazy, contented voice Crowley usually only hears while lying in bed. Aziraphale leans back against him, and Crowley wraps his arms around him from behind.

"Maybe," Crowley says. "So, we going to stay here on the floor?"

"I suppose not," says Aziraphale, but it's a minute or two, at least, before he moves.

Once Aziraphale is settled, again, on the sofa, Crowley flops down with his head in Aziraphale's lap like before. Aziraphale picks up his book; this time, though, he holds it in one hand, the other running gently through Crowley's hair.


	4. Time Takes it All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London is in ruins, and Crowley wants Aziraphale to think about moving on.

It's been quiet for months, now - a strange, unnatural silence that blankets London like a fog. The bookshop is still standing, thanks to a combination of luck and miracles, but half of Soho - and greater London - has been reduced to blackened ruins.

They'd prevented one apocalypse; they hadn't been able to prevent another. The war had taken so many - humans, that is - and fire, fallout, and famine are taking still more. Aziraphale has been doing what he can to help those who remain.

There's been little traffic since the petrol ran out, but the Bentley pulls up in front of the shop the way it's always done. Aziraphale is distracted watching a pair of teenagers scavenging the rubble; whatever they're looking for, he's certain - in a way they can't be - that they'll find it.

"Let's go inside," Crowley says, suddenly beside him. Aziraphale nods, but lingers on the pavement for a few more moments until Crowley takes his hand and pulls him toward the door. He locks it behind them.

"Tea?" Aziraphale asks, out of habit, once they're safely in the bookshop's back room. Miracled tea is somehow just a little inferior to the real thing, but it'll have to do. "Or - something stronger, perhaps?" 

"Stronger sounds good," Crowley says.

Aziraphale fetches a bottle from his dwindling collection and pours a glass for each of them before settling at Crowley's side on the sofa. Crowley's arm slips around his shoulders and they drink, for a while, without speaking; it doesn't feel like a time for idle chatter.

"I've been thinking," Crowley says, after their glasses have been refilled. Aziraphale has almost been waiting for it. He knows there's something on Crowley's mind; he's able to tell by the way the silence has a weight to it, by the way it feels like a physical thing between them. "Angel - Aziraphale," Crowley starts again. "D'you think it might be time for us to... move on?"

Aziraphale lowers his glass without taking a sip. "Move on?" he repeats. He's not as surprised as he undoubtedly sounds; Crowley hasn't quite been able to hide his growing restlessness over the past weeks. Most of what he liked about London has been destroyed - even the streets are barely navigable these days - and he's never been the type to settle into places like Aziraphale has done with Soho and his shop.

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder. "I know you don't like change," he says.

"It's not that," Aziraphale says. It _is_ that, though, at least in part. Of all the places he's lived, for months or years or centuries, London feels the most like home - or what he thinks home is supposed to feel like. Even now, when he stays in or near the bookshop more than ever before.

But there's Crowley to consider, too.

Aziraphale moves out from under Crowley's arm and walks to the front of the darkening shop, stopping near the window beside his desk. He takes a last sip from his glass and sets it down. There's a family passing down the street in the distance; Aziraphale knows Crowley can feel the pulse of divine power that comes with his blessing.

"They'll survive," says Crowley, as he comes up behind him. "Humans are good at doing that, if given half a chance." He wraps his arms around Aziraphale and leans in to rest his chin on his shoulder. "We don't have to leave tomorrow, or next week, or even next month," he says. "But look around you, Angel," he says, gesturing to the shop across the street - or where it used to be. "Really look - at what's here now, not what was. There are places we could go that-" and he stops, with a soft sigh.

Aziraphale closes his eyes. Crowley turns him around so they're face to face.

"It's just something to think about, all right?" Crowley says. He strokes his hands down Aziraphale's arms, then twines both sets of their fingers together. He leans forward for a long, slow kiss, resting his forehead against Aziraphale's when they part.

"All right," says Aziraphale, and finds he means it.


	5. What Carried You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and Michael, after the first war.

The war is over.

The war is over, and a heavy, strange silence suffuses the battlefield. Torn standards flutter in a soundless wind. The bodies left behind by the destroyed are breaking apart, being reclaimed by the Light. Others, instead, are simply turning to ash.

Gabriel has blood on his hands. On his uniform, and his sword as well, but it's his hands that draw his eye. Golden ichor, the blood of friends. No, former friends - now just the Fallen. His faith is not shaken - never shaken - but inside he can still hear the devastated screams of those who were cast out, their wings burning flame-dark on the way down. It unsettles him in a way that nothing has before.

Michael approaches, shining like a beacon with divine light behind her and her sword in her hand. She is beautiful, as always - serious and just a little battle-wild still, silver-bright armour splattered with gold, wings extended, and hair, escaped from its coil, long and loose and swaying in the wind. Gabriel sets his jaw, banishing the horror from his mind.

Michael the Warrior. Gabriel the Messenger. He wasn't trained for this.

It was necessary.

Gabriel looks, again, at his hands.

Michael composes herself with a snap of her fingers. The only gold that remains is the accents on her armour: poppy-flowers and vines twisting across her chest plate, along her shoulders, and down her arms. She sits across from Gabriel, forearms resting across her thighs. The look in her eyes - he's not seen it before. It's gentle and sharp at once, sympathetic and unyielding. It pierces him to the core.

With a gesture, Gabriel sets his uniform to rights.

"The troops are gathering," Michael says. "Will you speak?"

"Yes," says Gabriel.

Michael sighs, and lays down her sword. She bends to one knee in front of Gabriel, a damp cloth in her hands. She clasps him by one wrist, then the other, efficiently cleaning the blood still staining his palms and fingers. It could have been done with a snap; Gabriel does not have to ask why she chose this way, instead.

The cloth vanishes, and she threads her fingers through his. "Gabriel," she says, and he realises he's bowed his head. "You're allowed - we're all allowed - to mourn."

Something begins to ache, tight and painful, in his chest. "I know," he says. It's almost the truth. He pulls his hand away.

"What would She have you say to them?" Michael asks, and inclines her head toward where, in the distance, those who remain are coming together. Platoons intermix, friends seeking friends.

Gabriel is silent for a long moment. Then, "She has not spoken to me." He picks up his sword, and slides it back into its scabbard.

Michael's chin raises as something like dismay flickers in her eyes. "Then I suppose," she says, "the words must be your own." She stands, and takes a step toward the host, turning back to extend her hand, palm up.

Gabriel takes it.


End file.
